


A Little Bit of Soul

by twoandfour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandfour/pseuds/twoandfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home early to find Sherlock doing the unthinkable. Dancing. To soul music, no less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I attempt to write crack. It starts out as crack- like, $5 BJ behind the statue at the park, crack- and winds up a giant ball of somewhat serious smutty fluff. 
> 
> I don't really even know what I'm doing, anymore. 
> 
> But sex is good. Right?

Twenty four hours. Twenty four hours until John would be back from his medical (boring) conference. Sherlock understood, but didn’t. Obviously, it was important to keep up with one’s work, and conferences were the normal, accepted (boring) way of accomplishing that. But... but John subscribed to all the important journals and had day-to-day experience and surely that was enough. Especially for someone as intelligent as John Watson (more intelligent than the majority of the pale, quaking creatures left in one grey coat’s wake), and stop thinking about that, Sherlock.

Thinking about that only led to uncomfortable and lovely and jittery--- stop. Just stop. Data: John is a sexual creature, considering he tries to woo the knickers off of any attractive and perhaps mildly intelligent woman he comes across. Women. Straight, then. John is a considerate lover, since he rarely (if ever) returns home relaxed enough to have achieved.... No. Don’t think about orgasm. No thinking about orgasm as regards John. Since he rarely if ever returns home in a relaxed... Buckle down. Think. Since he often returns home frustrated, having given but not gotten. Occasionally he returns home accompanied by Sherlock. When that happens, John is usually a bit ...out of sorts.

“Could you... maybe try... to not get my date kidnapped? For once?”

And: (scrubbing annoyance [possibly rage] off his face) “Would it... I don’t know, maybe be possible... Just. Fucking. Once. For a woman I’m trying to get off with to not wind up in the boot of a psychopath’s car?”

Occasionally: “God. Fucking Dammit. Sherlock.”

Data: John is not happy/ amused/ amorous- no, full stop, not applicable- when certain activities which may or may not have been in one John’s plans are interrupted by criminal activity. Or at all. But mostly by criminal activity.

Sherlock really doesn’t mean to do it on purpose. It’s just that John always seems to be out on one of his (truly boring and unhelpful and distracting) dates with said (boring and unhelpful and distracting) women right when things get interesting. And that particular circumstance, which happens to be reoccurring, cannot be helped. Right. Right?

So. Twenty-four hours, then. And then (relative) peace would be restored. An (elemental) element of life at 221B (John) would resume, and all would be right. Until then, though, thought Sherlock, Sherlock was alone. And could perhaps indulge. Engage, even. In something no one- not even Mycroft- knew anything about (at least, he’d never said anything). In something even a certain (not important-- fine, maybe a little important) army doctor had never even noticed.

Sherlock unplugged his earbuds, jacked his laptop straight into the stereo, hit “play”, and proceeded to dance. His arse off.

It started (innocently? enough) with The Dominos’ Sixty Minute Man. He writhed and wriggled and it was a cheeky enough song that, really, the subject matter could be written off. Then, (and being a somewhat obsessive man, he never could really deviate from a playlist), there was Miss Franklin singing about medical personnel that made her feel good. Ahem. He might or might not have wriggled his arse some more. 

And then, as such things are wont to happen, Sherlock found himself leaning way over a kitchen worktop and veritably shaking his (somewhat rather lush) cheeks in perfect rhythm to Big, Long Slidin’ Thing by Dinah Washington, and maybe, perhaps, if you’d asked him a week or so later, feeling rather wanton.

Which, considering the Universe is an almost unfailingly a kind if surprising entity, is exactly when one John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Army medic and badass, womanizer and dashing hero, decided to waltz back into the flat a full day early.

Only to find one normally staid and pop-culturally-unaware (or so it would seem he wanted people to think) consulting detective shaking his rather... voluptuous... backside to.... holy motherfucking shit. That could not, in any way possible, not in a single one of the most delicious circles of this must be hell, be Stevie Wonder. It could most certainly not, under any circumstances whatsoever, be “Signed, Sealed, Delivered”.

It couldn’t be. Because... well, it couldn’t. Sherlock Holmes did not ever, *ever*, shake his entirely too delectable arse, well, ever. And certainly not to one of John Watson’s favorite songs. And absolutely not to Dr John Watson’s single most favorite style of music.

Had he ever told...? No, he hadn’t. Because this creature was a classical creature. He was all fugues and airs and concertos. Wasn’t he? Please, God, wasn’t he? Because if he wasn’t, it meant he was this, and this was not... something.... Jesus God.

Oh, and God (are you there? it’s me, John Watson), please help me. My flatmate is making an utter fool of himself and I’m supposed to be shocked and laughing my arse off and instead all I want is to want him and isn’t that an 80’s song and oh God, what the hell? And what does it mean that I’m phrasing this according to fucking Judy Blume? What am I, a thirteen year old girl? God? God- Fine. Fuck you, too, then.

At some exact, preordained, glorious moment, which may have been accompanied by shafts of celestial light, Sherlock’s playlist let loose with Dr Feelgood Potts’ “Make It Talk”, and one John Hamish Watson was fucking done. He stood motionless, letting the waves of music and realization crash over him, having already decided what was to be done, and just not having done it yet. And also because he figured the floor show was a pretty damn good warm-up. And then, because said Universe apparently decided he needed a bit of a nudge, Ida Cox came on. She’s a one hour mama, and no one minute papa ain’t the kinda man for her. And when she sang, “I want a slow and easy man, he needn’t ever take the lead”... Sherlock, still writhing rhythmically against (against?) the countertop... well, he sort of groaned. John’s name.

Well, then.

Since there was still a bit of song left to go and Sherlock hadn’t yet noticed his presence (which should be taken as a very telling indicator of his present state of mind), John quietly strode over to the laptop and glanced at the open iTunes app. Playlist, then. He smirked as a quick scan revealed not only the exact song he was looking for, but the exact one he correctly figured (given the styles and, um, content of the previous songs) would be there.

He cued up the song and settled into his favorite armchair to wait. And observe. Which was the fun part.

(Joseph and Mary, that arse. Shouldn’t be allowed.)

As the final strains of Miss Cox’s sultry supplication faded out, Sherlock appeared to be gearing up for the switch to a faster tempo. And had his playlist continued unaltered, he’d have next been grooving (against the countertop, and rather furiously, at that) to “Bone It Like You Own It” by one Denise LaSalle.

As it was, though, his list (and the course of his life) had been mucked about with. And as the iconically plaintive wail of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” let forth from the speakers, one previously wriggling consulting detective froze. Against the countertop. With one hand halfway down his trousers.

The song wound on, but time stopped. John waited, trying and failing to get his smirk under control even as his heart hammered against the wall of his chest like it was being wielded by a very horny Thor. The doctor portion of his brain idly wondered how long his flatmate actually could hold his breath while sustaining what appeared to be a significant erection.

Finally, after a length of time that was beginning cause said doctor-brain a bit of concern, Sherlock took a tentative breath and very slightly turned his head and his eyes locked with John’s.

“...John.”

The referenced party fought heroically to supress a grin, and won. It was a close thing.

“Yes, you’ve already said.”

Sherlock actually blushed. New miracles every day. Then he swallowed in what looked like a somewhat painful fashion.

“You’re back early,” he said in the offhanded tone of someone who was not currently grinding the heel of his hand against gloriously tented silk pants.

John, still doing epic battle with a stubborn grin (he had invaded Afghanistan almost singlehandedly, after all), decided that this was not how this particular game was going to be played.

“Sherlock, feel as free as you normally do to correct me if I’m wrong, but generally the time to play coy is before your flatmate catches you with your hand on your dick and his name on your lips.” He quirked an eyebrow and allowed himself a small, teasing smile.

He didn’t know what to expect in return; not really. A volleyed quip, maybe... A decrease in tension following an escalation of proceedings, perhaps. A mutual fit of relieved giggles, at least. What he did not expect, though, was exactly what he got.

Sherlock carefully withdrew his hand and pushed away from the worktop. His eyes assumed their normal coldness, but with a hint of something else that refused to be hidden entirely lurking underneath as he faced John.

“I’m sorry, John. You weren’t meant to find out. I’m sure Mrs Hudson will waive the early notice fee, in light of... I'm sorry."

Then he turned and crossed the kitchen in three strides. John heard his bedroom door snick softly shut behind him.

What? The hell. Had just happened.

Confusion rapidly gave way to a prick of tears and the thudding in his heart turned painful as Sherlock's resigned, defeated eyes danced in his mind. "Should have gone with the grin, you stupid prick," he huffed out, chest constricted. Sherlock thought John was angry. Maybe even disgusted. Sherlock thought John was leaving, for Christ's sake. He sat for a long moment trying to make sense of Sherlock's reaction. Marvin wasn't helping, so John distractedly tapped the space bar for quiet.

He let his mind wander back to barely remembered moments during their association. The wandering stuck on an introduction given inside a pillar of high finance to a smarmy face in a gauche suit. "This is my friend." "Colleague." John groaned and clapped his hand to his mouth as a flood of other moments came rushing in from all sides.

"I'm not gay."

"I'm not his date."

"We're not a couple."

"Bachelor John Watson... we've got to be more careful."

John had never quite experienced what it was like to feel like dog scat on the bottom a shoe before. Turns out, it wasn't pleasant. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of those memories and reached for other, different ones.

Breathless giggles against the wall followed by a knock at the door and an now-unneeded cane.

Great bursts of shared laughter like drops of sunlight, sitting on a sofa in Buckingham Palace, Sherlock outfitted like some awkward Greek god in a bedsheet.

The gaping, shattering heartbreak of loss. Months of numb emptiness, going through the motions of existence. The rage turned breathless joy of reunion.

Brief touches and sly glances as life returned to (relative) normal.

John Watson was a man who appreciated undeniable truths and clear lines drawn in the sand. Well, then. He and Sherlock were in love. With each other, of all people. Huh. Now to (hopefully) undo the damage of the last few moments.

Setting his chin, he strode to Sherlock's door and rapped three times.

"Sherlock, let me in."

No response.

He knocked again. "Let me in, you twat." The last word was infused with affection.

"Go away, John." (It might as well have been "leave me to die".)

John rolled his eyes, but without much heat. Well... not that kind of heat.

"The longer you wait to open this door, the longer it'll be before I can snog you into the wall." There.

A scuffling noise. The door cracked open and two very startled eyes appeared, half-hidden under a mop of dark curls.

"What?"

John thought about taking a moment to enjoy the extremely rare look of outright confusion painting The Great Detective's face, but decided against it. This was a moment for action.

He pushed the door open and stepped in, placing one steady hand on Sherlock's shoulder and cupping the other around his jaw, meeting his eyes determinedly.

"You're an idiot. And I think I'm in love with you." Then he pressed his lips against Sherlock's in a short but tender kiss before pulling away to gauge his reaction.

"...Oh." A beat, and then something like relief bloomed all over Sherlock's impossible features. This time, John let the grin win for a moment before ghosting his lips against Sherlock's again. "Is that.. okay?" he breathed, heart once again trying to escape into his throat.

Sherlock didn't give it a chance to get there. "Yes," he breathed back, and John could taste the hint of what might have been uncertain tears in the exhalation.

The second kiss was longer, but just as sweet, and searching. First, just the brush of lips on lips, fingers exploring faces, lashes fluttering against cheekbones as data was broadened and rewritten. It stretched sweetly into slowed time until a tongue grazed a lower lip. On a soft sigh, Sherlock pulled back enough to meet John's eyes with his own. The question there was naked, apparent. Are you sure? Please be sure.

John stared back with a look that read "deduce". Sherlock, understanding, flicked his eyes rapidly over John's features in intense concentration. He took in the relaxed limbs and unflinching gaze, the unhesitant proximity and the determined jaw. And then he smiled the most brilliant smile John had ever witnessed, pale eyes alight with wonder. John inhaled sharply, reminded of a billion blazing stars in a nighttime desert sky. But he didn't want the moment growing heavy. This was momentous, yes; life-altering. But your first time with your new lover shouldn't be so fraught.

"Can't believe Sexual Healing wasn't on that list," John mock-admonished. "Marvin would be horrified."

And then they were laughing. Maniacally, hysterically, clutching each other helplessly and collapsing in heaving heaps on the bed which shook underneath them with each struggled breath and renewed peal.

"Think... think maybe I'll leave the healing to you, doctor," Sherlock managed, sending John into another breathless fit. Sherlock laughed along, but in a moment, it slowed to a rumbling chuckle. He took a deep breath and dipped his face toward John's, placing a light kiss over the corner of his wide smile, testing.

John exhaled a slow, heated breath across his cheek. "Sherlock..." He turned to face his flatmate- boyfriend? They'd figure out terms later- still smiling, but with a question lingering around the corners of his eyes. He sighed. Out with it, he decided.

"I don't care one way or the other, really, but I do need to know... Are you- have you ever-"

"I am, and I haven't. Never seemed like a data set I particularly needed or wanted before you," Sherlock answered. "I'm not ashamed-" reflexive defiance flashed. "Nor am I unsure," he reassured. "But...I hope I won't try your patience too much." His eyes found something interesting to study on John's ear.

John lightly gripped his chin and brought those eyes back to his. "If it helps, I've never been with a bloke. So I'm something of a virgin myself in this context. I suppose we'll just... do whatever happens to feel right. I'm hoping we can start with a bit more kissing because, God, your mouth is gorgeous." He skimmed a thumb across Sherlock's pronounced Cupid's bow, his eyes deep blue wells of unhurried want.

That seemed to be all the confidence boost that was needed, because suddenly Sherlock was on John, still-clothed skin humming with undisguised desire.

"Show me."

"God, yes."

John hitched a leg around Sherlock's body and flipped them over, his mouth sealing Sherlock's and stealing his breath. He moved his lips hungrily but purposefully over Sherlock's, silently willing him to follow suit. Sherlock did not disappoint. He met John's every move, sighing in his throat and clutching at John's hair, taking the lead for a moment and then yielding again. Then in a move that surprised both of them, he licked into John's mouth; a testing swipe and questioning retreat.

"Oh, God," John moaned into Sherlock's lips, and then answered with his own tongue, dipping in to tease it back out and against his own. Sherlock did what he did with anything unfamiliar and recorded, catalogued the new sensation. John, no stranger to this ritual, simply continued as he was and waiting. He was rewarded a moment later with a quick suck on his tongue followed by a soft bite to his lower lip. He bucked his hips involuntarily.

"Christ, you're a fast learner," he hitched, grinning down at Sherlock's smug smirk. He decided to wipe it off his face and replace it with that initial breathless need. Just for now. So as Sherlock leaned up to take the kiss back up, John turned his head and sucked Sherlock's left earlobe into his mouth, instead.

"Fuck, John!" Sherlock shuddered, eyes wide and amazed. John giggled on an exhaled breath.

"So much to learn..." He ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, indulging himself in the thick, silky curls. "God, Sherlock. I want to show you everything. And I want you to show me, too."

Sherlock stilled, taking in John's words and weighing them even as he looked back up at him with wondering eyes. John hoped the moment wasn't becoming too freighted again.

But then Sherlock simply said, "Clothes," with which John suddenly and mightily agreed. He sat back on his heels and peeled off his jumper, tossing it somewhere in the general vicinity of the floor, and then unbuttoned and removed his shirt, followed by his vest, with military efficiency. He glanced up at Sherlock just in time to see one strained button fly off his shirt-front and ping against the base of the bedside lamp. Then, he lost it.

Doubling over on the bed, he shook with soundless mirth until he could scratch out (at a very bemused Sherlock), "God- Oh God! I've been waiting for that to happen for three years!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes halfheartedly, trying for petulance and failing. "Form-fitting clothes are more conducive to my work, John."

John shook anew, then gasped out, "Those bloody shirts are the envy of every eight year old boy in London!" And before Sherlock could take it upon himself to read too much into the lighthearted jab and become self-conscious, John said, "But if I were as fit as you, I'd want to show it off, too." And he smiled slyly as he reached out a hand and thumbed over a silk-covered nipple.

"Christ." Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip, uncertainty forgotten.

John moved his hand to cover the remaining fastened buttons. "May I?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. One by one the straining buttons came undone, and the shirt was moved down over toned arms to join the clothes already on the floor. John stared at the pale, muscular chest in naked fascination and was about to remark on its loveliness when he felt Sherlock's hand come to rest on his left shoulder. Covering his war-wound. No one had ever touched him there. He held his breath and looked into Sherlock's eyes. What he saw there made him shiver.

Pain and fear. And something like reverence. Sherlock's eyes were wet and bright.

"Hey," John murmured. "Hey, what's this, then." Sherlock danced light fingers along the raised starburst of tissue and then bent forward and kissed the penny center of scar. "You could've... you almost- John, if you had-" Never had John heard Sherlock's words so broken. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and pressed him to his chest.

"But I didn't. I'm here." Then he pulled his lips to Sherlock's ear and whispered, "And you didn't, either," his own voice breaking a bit. Sherlock pulled back a little and studied John's face.

"Kiss me again. Please."

John readily complied. Unspoken regrets and promises were poured into that meeting of lips and tongues and teeth. John broke away to plant soft kisses along Sherlock's jaw, and down onto his neck, reaching up with one hand to skim over Sherlock's right nipple and threading the other back through his hair.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock," he murmured. "I'll give you anything. Everything. You've got me." He reached down to grip Sherlock's hand and place it over his heart. "Got me. Understand? I'm yours for as long as you want me. Tell me what you want tonight."

Sherlock's body let loose on a tremor and he pulled needed air into his lungs as he pressed his hand closer against the skin covering John's beating heart. "I want to feel you. Against me. Please, John. God, I need you."

John sighed and cupped both sides of Sherlock's face, plundering his mouth again; Sherlock responded greedily, licking at John's lips and sucking at his tongue.

Somehow trousers came off, followed by pants (a part of John's otherwise occupied brain made future plans involving rutting against buttery silk until it was utterly ruined), and John sucked in a breath at the sight of Sherlock's cock. It was long, rigid, almost purple against the pale skin and short, dark curls surrounding it. It had a delicate upward sweep, and the head of it, just peeking out of Sherlock's foreskin, was threading pre-ejaculate against the taut curve of his stomach.

Sherlock, for his own, was staring at John's thick, circumcised cock while absently tonguing at his lower lip. "God, John," he breathed, and then snapped his eyes upward. "You're... Christ." His face was etched with desire and he was blinking rapidly. John blushed deeply and chuckled out an uncertain sound. "I, um.. I hope that's a good 'Christ'", he said.

Sherlock's answer was skim a hand up John's thigh and gently roll John's bollocks in his palm. John tipped his back and groaned, "Where the fuck did you learn that..."

Sherlock blinked and gave a soft smile, dipping his voice into a register so low it should not have registered to John's thrumming ears. "A simple deduction," he rumbled.

John placed his hand to Sherlock's sternum and pushed him back into the pillows, shifting to settle his hips into the cradle of Sherlock's sharper ones.

Both men groaned at the first scorching contact. John propped himself up on trembling arm and looked down between them. "Christ," he huffed. Sherlock followed his gaze and gasped, gripping John's shoulders and flexing his long fingers.

"God, that's..."

"Gorgeous," John agreed.

Their cocks were slotted together side by side, John's balls resting atop Sherlock's slightly larger ones. Both were leaking steadily. The two men's bodies seem to fit like perfect puzzle pieces; a match designed rather than randomly occurring. John lifted his eyes back up to Sherlock's face and waited until his gaze was met, then dropped onto his elbow and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, again.

"Are you really mine?" he mouthed.

"Always," kissed Sherlock, and bucked his hips up into John's.

That was it. That was all the invitation needed. John groaned and ground down to meet Sherlock's thrust. The hot slide of cock against cock sent John's skin into waves of gooseflesh and Sherlock threw his head back into the pillows and growled. John bucked into another of Sherlock's eager thrusts before slipping a hand between their bodies.

He palmed at the heads of both their cocks, gathering their collective wet, and then slid his hand around both of them. He rocked his now slick hand up and then down in a sharp pump.

"Fuck, John. Oh God, fuck yes."

John grunted and repeated the pumping motion as Sherlock scratched at his sweat-slick back.

"Christ, Oh God, Sherlock, that's so sweet."

His own wide eyes met Sherlock's and for a brief moment the world tilted and then stilled completely.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered.

And then Sherlock was coming and coming, crying out, his whole body jerking and twisting into John's hand, hot come spilling over both of them. Both men stilled for a moment.

And then abruptly, Sherlock shoved John off of him, and for an agonizing second, John thought that this was it, this was too much for Sherlock, everything was lost.

And then Sherlock shifted up and took John's cock in own hand and, eyes fixed wonderingly on John's, gave three or four slick tugs. John threw his back and grunted, his orgasm burning through his body from his toes up, and he looked down in time to see his own seed arch up and spatter across Sherlock's belly and chest in hot, pulsing ribbons.

A minute later, John was lying half on top of Sherlock, arm splayed possessively across his stomach in a pool of combined and cooling ejaculate. He was still panting slightly as Sherlock tenderly brushed at his hair with his fingertips. Sherlock nudged at John's chin with his nose, and reclaiming John's eyes, peered at him through thick, dark lashes. He smiled. John smiled back and squeezed his side.

"Amazing," John said. "Just... amazing."

Sherlock's smile widened. "You really think so?" he smirked, slightly, a conversation remembered. John huffed out a laugh in concert.

"So," he said, kissing a high cheekbone. "Think this new data set might be worth exploring, then?"

Sherlock grinned up at the ceiling. "Oh, I don't think I'll tire of this particular experiment anytime soon, John," he said as he traced along John's hairline. "I simply hadn't come across the one missing element that made the endeavor seem worthwhile, until recently," he said, a bit imperiously.

"Oh?", John asked, smiling into Sherlock's shoulder. "What's that then?"

Sherlock's lip twitched. "Well, John, to use a relevant phrase... 'a little bit of soul.'"

The bed shook under laughter that would only sleep would dim, that night.


End file.
